


The (Conquered) Hero

by TheEagleGirl



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: AU, Aged up Sansa, And rescues Sansa, F/M, Theon goes to Kings Landing instead of Pyke, direwolfpupy made me do it, what if
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-29
Updated: 2017-09-14
Packaged: 2018-12-21 13:23:47
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Underage
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,799
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11945139
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheEagleGirl/pseuds/TheEagleGirl
Summary: RobbcommandedTheon to go to Pyke.Since when has Theon ever listened?





	1. The Eagle has Landed

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kingsnow (bravegentlestrong)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bravegentlestrong/gifts).



> Based on an amazing prompt on tumblr by direwolfpupy (kingsnow).

Theon didn’t expect it to be this easy. True, he’d been in the crowd, hoping for a glimpse of the procession after they left the docks, but when the riot breaks out and he catches sight of Sansa’s red hair in the crowd, he’s on his feet immediately. She’s been dragged off her horse, away from her guard in the chaos, and the smallfolk are grabbing at her hair, her blue dress, greedy hands trying to _take_.

No matter. They may have the numbers, but Theon’s got a sword, and he knows how to use it. He nearly loses sight of her in the confusion, sees her dragged under a sea of dirty urchins and smelly fishwives. _Drowned God_ , but they are filthy here. Forget Northmen. These were the real savages.

Perhaps that is why her mouth drops open in a soundless _oh_ when Theon shoves them out of the way and takes her by the waist. In his dark blue tunic and the gleaming silver buttons, he must look like a prince. Perhaps that is why she scrambles towards him, tucks herself into his side and clutches at his jerkin. Gods know Sansa never willingly touched Theon before.

When they are free of the mob, Theon wraps his cloak around her and tucks her bright hair beneath the hood. She is shaking still, but Theon—Theon has the biggest grin on his face when they make it to the dock.

* * *

  
Robb had commanded Theon to go to Pyke. _Commanded_ him. As if Theon were not a prince himself now. As if Theon were a subject of the North, as if he were the green boy and Robb the man. The order had rankled him, and when Theon had commandeered the Lannister vessel with a skeleton crew of 9 men off the _Myraham_ , he’d turned south instead of north, east instead of west.

“Imagine the glory!” He’d told his crew, raising the horn of ale he’d taken from the captain’s quarters. “Stealing the rose of the North right out from under the lion bitch’s nose!”

He’s not quite sure when the plan—if it could be called such a thing—solidified. Perhaps between his fourth and fifth drink, perhaps after his euphoria had reached its high. Finally, _finally_ , Theon had his own ship. He wouldn’t return as the ward, the hostage that the honorable Ned Stark stole away a decade before. He’d return to Pyke a _hero_ , the dashing rogue who did what even the King in the North couldn’t accomplish—waltz into the most guarded city in the world and steal a princess from under the Lannisters without them being the wiser.

 _Imagine the glory._ Theon had imagined it. He knew what it would look like. The women he’d meet would _beg_ him to bed them after they heard what a hero he was. They’d fall to their knees for just a chance to be fucked by Theon Greyjoy, prince of the Iron Isles. They’d thank him after, pray to whatever greenlander gods they had to see him again.

And with his head full with dreams of glory and that soft warmth between a woman’s thighs, Theon sailed into the lion’s den.

* * *

  
Sansa was silent for long after they’d sailed away. When Theon returned belowdecks to check on her, she was staring out of the porthole at the distant smudge of the city on the horizon. Turned away from him, she seemed small, doll-like.

“You’re out, then,” Theon says, cheerily, leaning against the door. Sansa starts, and turns to him. Drowned God, but she’d gotten prettier in the two years since Theon’s seen her. When she left Winterfell as a girl of fourteen, she’d been a sight to see, but Theon had always thought of her as a child. She’s devastatingly lovely now, with the candlelight throwing soft shadows across her, the pale line of her throat, the clear blue of her eyes offsetting the golden red of her hair. Theon knew that the pretty child would become a beautiful woman, but still…his mouth goes dry. He masks his staring with a rakish grin.

“Thank you for that,” Sansa says, her voice clear as a bell. “I—I thought I’d die in that place. Thank you for getting me away from there.”

Theon smiles widely. Appreciation. Finally.

She ruins it, though. “Did Robb—did he send you?”

His smile freezes, and he can feel it—the cruel tilt to his mouth. “No,” he says, fighting to sound jovial. “I came myself. I thought I’d rescue you, see. You’re missing all the good stuff, you know. War makes for exciting times! Couldn’t let you stay cooped up in King’s Landing the _entire_ bloody time.”

Sansa looks faint, but Theon wonders if it’s not the dim light and the shadows and the way he’s studying her face. She closes her eyes briefly. “He didn’t send you?”

“No,” Theon repeats, firmly.

With a shuddering breath, Sansa opens her eyes. To Theon’s surprise, they are full of tears. “Theon—” she begins, her voice hitching. She never says his name. That alone is enough to wipe the smile from his face. “Theon, they were so horrible there. It was awful. Joffrey is a monster, and I—I want my mother and Robb and Arya. Won’t you take me to them? Please, Theon, if you use me for something else, I—I don’t think I’d survive it.”

Theon’s never seen Sansa this way, poised but crumbling, still but almost broken, blinking back tears. Use her for something else? Why would she think—

Before he can comprehend what he’s done, he’s taken three long strides across the berth and she’s in his arms. He’s got a nose full of red hair that smells like flowers and can feel every inch of Sansa against him.

“I’ll take you to him,” he promises, hardly recognizing the voice coming from his throat. It’s too soft, mumbled against her hair. This wasn’t the plan, but Theon’s the first to admit he’d hardly _planned_ anything, really. “I’ll take you to Robb, Sansa, and then…you can go home, I promise.”

“Thank you,” she whispers, and he can feel her tears against his collarbone. Gods, she’s gotten tall. “Thank you, Theon.”

When she pulls away, she’s teary and more beautiful than Theon’s ever seen. He doesn’t think he’s laid his eyes on a sight so lovely in years. He’s so caught up in her, dazed that he barely has time to react. When she rises to her toes and presses her lips to Theon’s cheek, he freezes.

When she pulls away, her cheeks look flushed…but no, that must be the poor light. Theon fights the urge to place a hand on the burning spot where her lips touched his skin.

“I prayed for a knight, some hero to take me away,” she confesses, her voice soft in the dark. “I prayed and prayed, every time Joffrey had me beaten or Cersei called me her _little dove_ in that awful way. The gods answer our prayers.” She clutches at his hands. Her fingers are still shaking. “I’m glad it was you.”

Fuck.


	2. An Exercise in Self-Control

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Theon, of all people, is trying to do this right.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was totally harassed into updating this, btw, so you can thank the good people of tumblr :D
> 
> Also, I drew a thing for this story. It's at http://the-eagle-girl.tumblr.com/post/164850216104/

Sansa decides that he  _is_  handsome, with his blue eyes and his hair darkened by the spray off the sea. She hadn’t thought so before, back in Winterfell, but he must have been handsome then as well, because he hasn’t really changed, has he? That sly smile of his was still there, as was the edge to his voice when he was angry. But she’d never seen that hesitance before, not the consideration with which he’s been showing her since stealing her away.   
  
And that, too, was unexpected of him. So far as Sansa can tell, he really hasn’t lied to her–Robb didn’t send him to rescue her, and neither did anyone else. But he’d come, when no one had, when Sansa had begun to think no one would. For that, Sansa will never be able to repay him.  
  
He shoots her a smile when she climbs to the deck gingerly, trying not to sway with the boat. It’s a tired one, but positively wicked nonetheless. Back in Winterfell, if Sansa’s mother had seen such a look she’d have boxed Theon ‘round the ears.   
  
Her mother isn’t here now. The thought sends a stab of pain through Sansa. She’s missed her mother so much. Perhaps…perhaps with Theon helping her, she’ll see her soon.  
  
“What are you doing?” Sansa asks, when she reaches him. She’s not quite graceful on the ship, but she manages as well as she can, and keeps a hand over her hair so that it will not tangle in the wind.   
  
“Taking down the Lannister sails,” Theon says. “We commandeered the ship near Lannisport, in order to sneak into the city, but we’re in the waters of Dragonstone now. We can’t have Stannis’s fleet see an enemy boat on the horizon.”  
  
Sansa eyes the canvas his men are unrolling.  "May I…help? I could, well, hold something, I suppose.“  
  
She bites her lip. Did she really sound like such a child? _Hold something_?  
  
But Theon’s eyes are laughing, though he is kind enough to not do so out loud. “No, Sansa. But you can watch.”  
  
So she does, watches as they pull down that golden lion sail and hoist up a plainer green one with a minor Dornish sigil.   
  
“No one’s at war with Dorne,” Theon says cheerfully, wiping his hands on his trousers. For the first time, Sansa notices that his clothing is…dirty, his hair sticking to his scalp with sweat. The thought does not bother her as it once would have, surprisingly, but it does bring a blush to her face, and she can no longer meet his eyes.  
  
“For now,” she replies, because there is nothing else for her to say. When she looks up, Theon had a confused look on his face, and his eyes are trained on hers.   
  
“Are you well?” He asks, slowly and carefully, as though he cannot believe that he has reduced Sansa to a mumbling, blushing girl. She nods, embarrassed beyond belief, and her cheeks continue to heat.   
  
“You’re red,” Theon says, suddenly delighted. Sansa nearly hides her face.  
  
“It’s the sea,” Sansa says faintly. “Forgive me, Theon. I wish to go back to my cabin.” And before he can answer or tease her some more, Sansa turns on her hell and walks away as regally as she is able.  
  
She does  _not_ slam the door when she gets into her cabin. She does  _not_.

* * *

  
  
Theon is almost apologetic when he brings Sansa her supper. He does not give her that look from this morning, and though Sansa is glad he is being considerate…she had been looking forward to it. She’s not so naive, not anymore. She knows what it is men want–Cersei had seen to that. Men want to take a girl’s virtue, to lord it above them, to mold a woman to the image that is the most courteous, the most subservient. She’s knows what men want from her. But Sansa has never considered what is it _she_ wants.  
  
She takes the platter from him carefully, and tries not to notice how he pulls his hands away once they touch.  
  
“I’m sorry,” he says finally, breaking the silence. “I shouldn’t have treated you so, Sansa–Lady Sansa, I mean. I just forgot, for a moment.”  
  
When Sansa finds her voice, she asks, “Forgot what?”  
  
Theon does not flinch from the question, or the truth.   
  
“Who it is you are,” he says simply. “And who it is I am.” 

At first she does not understand. And then, all at once, her heart begins to hammer.   
  
“Robb–” Theon begins, his face shuttering closed, “He’ll be happy to see you.”  
  
“I know that,” Sansa says, voice small.  
  
“But he’ll marry you off,” Theon continues, “for an alliance–a sorely needed one, probably, to a man with an army at his back. He’s a king now, with a war to win. He promised Arya to some Frey boy.”  
  
“I know,” Sansa repeats, more slowly. Why won’t her heart stop pounding?  
  
“You–you understand what I’m trying to say? I’m shite at this, Sansa.”  
  
She does. Sansa feels that she’s begun to understand the layers of the man that is Theon Greyjoy. He may act inappropriately and make wicked jests that horrify Sansa, they’re so vulgar. Under that, though, he is kind, a man who does not know who he wants to be, torn between Stark and Greyjoy. Somehow, still kind. She’s seen it, though not very often. She would like to see it again. And again.   
  
“Sansa, I–” he starts, after she has been quiet for too long, but Sansa stops him from ruining the moment in the only way she knows how.  
  
She kisses him. And when she does, she forgets who it is he is. And who she is, as well. There is just the two of them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please comment and review!! I loved the feedback so far!


	3. The Boatsex that was Promised

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Theon gives in. Like that's such a hardship.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...and now it's going to be 5 chapters. Because I can't adhere to the limits I set myself, ever.

“I want you to take me,” Sansa says, when they are three days out from White Harbor. The words are so shocking, Theon stops kissing her neck to pull back and stare.

“What?” Theon could never have imagined those words coming from Sansa’s mouth—and even then, he’d have liked a more love-struck expression, a look of adoration. Instead, Sansa is frowning down at him, her forehead wrinkled.

She repeats herself, slowly—as if to a child. “I want you to take me.” And she clarifies, as though Theon has not understood, but he _doesn’t_ , really. “Like a man—like _you_ would take a woman.”

Theon needs distance to process this, he needs _space_ , so he disentangles his limbs from hers and leans as far away as he can. It’s not far enough. The cabin is small, and she’s seated on his lap. He’s utterly distracted by _Sansa_ , warm and wriggling atop him.

“You can’t—Sansa, you’re not wedded yet, you—”

“Will be wed to the highest bidder,” Sansa says, her mouth tight. “You said so yourself, Theon. Robb needs allies. He’ll marry me off for an army, if he can.”

“Robb _loves_ you,” Theon protests, mouth dry.

“I know,” Sansa says, quietly. She reaches out to skim her fingers down Theon’s face, her eyes impossibly deep and determined. “And that is why I want you to—to do this for me. So that my first time is with someone who loves me.” Sansa takes a deep breath and continues, unaware that Theon’s heart is hammering, that his life has shattered before her. “Cersei once told me that a woman’s greatest weapon isn’t her tears, but the weapon she wields between her legs. I don’t—I want there to be a time, at least one time, when it isn’t a weapon. Where there’s no ulterior motive or game I’ve got to play. Just…just once, Theon.”

Theon hates that she’s speaking this way, as if it’s a chore she’s got to complete before moving forward. No one he’s ever bedded would consider it a _chore_ , he’s sure. So he leans forward and takes her lips once more.

“It doesn’t have to be just that,” he whispers against her lips, when she pulls away for air. “It doesn’t have to be a weapon. This,” he says, and presses his fingers to her hip, grounds her against him so he can rock up into her and hear her moan. “This can be a _fucking pleasure_ , if you do it right.”

Sansa’s eyes are burning when they meet his. “So do it right,” she challenges, and her voice only shakes a little.

* * *

 

There have been times Theon’s done this, pressed a girl into a bed and kissed his way down her body, pulled her smallclothes down with nimble fingers so he could kiss her where she needs him. But those times have been few, he’ll admit. Theon’s always been more for pursuing his own pleasures, taking what he wants.

He’ll not do that now. This is about Sansa, and so when he lays her back and gathers up her skirts, he gives her a wicked grin before he descends.

“You match,” he says delightedly, once he’s pulled off the linen. Sansa burns a deep red, almost as red as her hair, when Theon pulls at it.

She swats at him half-heartedly, but her eyes are bright. “Are you just going to look?” she asks haughtily, but she is betrayed by the shake in her voice.

“There’s more than one way for a man to take a woman,” Theon says, smile widening when he slips his fingers lower, until he’s grazing her cunt, slippery and perfect. Sansa’s eyes flutter shut. Good. He wants her to be surprised.

And she is. When Theon leans down and presses a kiss to the jut of Sansa’s hipbones, she nearly bucks up and knocks him off her, if not for his arm holding her by the waist.

“Theon,” she breathes, watching him move down her body. “Theon, that’s not—”

But her words dissolve into a soundless moan when he puts his lips on her.

Theon’s not done this often. But if the way Sansa clutches at his hair is any indication, he does it _well._

“Theon,” she whimpers, her voice cutting through the darkness of the berth. “Gods, Theon, _please_.”

Theon pulls away at that, though he misses the taste of her immediately—she’s sweet and sharp all at once—and grins at her. “Please what?” he asks cheekily.

She shoots him a pleading look, which is followed by a glare when she regains herself. “Theon,” she warns him. “I will kill you if you _dare_ stop.”

“I hear and obey,” he says, licking his lips. Her eyes follow the movement, and Theon can feel it, the involuntary shudder that goes through her body.

It’s good, he realizes. He hadn’t liked doing this before, back when it was a stable girl in Winterfell, or the whore who taught him to do this, but with Sansa it’s _good._ He doesn’t love the taste, but he does love to watch Sansa’s chest heave, hear the quiet noises she’s making, see her come apart because of him. Especially when he adds a finger and Sansa bites her lip in an effort to stay quiet…but doesn’t _quite_ manage it. Theon’s feeling very self-satisfied when she comes with a low moan, her hips lifting off the mattress. There’s a tremor under her skin, right where Theon presses his lips against her.

“It was never like that,” Sansa says, a hitch in her breath. “Not when I did it to myself.”

“Back in King’s Landing?” Theon asks. He wipes his chin on the furs before shooting her a look. He’s ignored his hardness for a while, but it’s crying out for attention now. Still, he waits. “It’s because you didn’t have me back there. I’d have taken care of you,” he says, smiling at her.

“I’m sure,” she laughs, and makes room for Theon when he sits up. Her eyes dart to the front of his breeches, and back to his face.

“Can I?” he asks, gesturing. She nods jerkily. Slowly, Theon sets his knees on either side of his waist so he can get to the laces of her dress. He tries to take it slowly, to unlace her languidly, not like an eager green boy. He doesn’t _quite_ manage the level of ease he’d wanted. The Winter Town girls he’d seen hadn’t exactly been wearing corsets, and the stable master’s daughter had only ever lifted her skirts. But Theon wants to see Sansa, see all of her.

“Let me help,” Sansa says, wetting her lips. Theon nods, and her fingers join his.

“I’ll never understand why women wear these awful things,” he mutters, and Sansa laughs against his cheek, a soft exhale of breath.

 _Gods,_ he wants her.

When the corset falls away, Theon lifts off her shift, inching it up until she is bare before him. And she’s the most glorious creature he’s ever seen, all pink and blushing and _perfect_. Until she pulls the shift against her chest again and blushes fiercely.

“Your turn,” she says, cheeks burning. “I want to see _you_.”

Theon gives her a cocky grin. “Of _course_ you do.”

She is quiet when he finally shrugs off his doublet and tunic, though she leans forward to help with his breeches. Her hands are shaking against the placket of his trousers, but Theon calms her with a kiss. When he’s finished kicking off his clothes, Sansa stares at him with darkened eyes.

“Are you sure?” Theon asks. He’s never really asked before, has he, with Ros, with Megga? But he has to, now. With Sansa—he couldn’t bear it if she changed her mind.

Sansa swallows. “Yes,” she tells him. “I’m sure. I want it to be you, Theon.”

That nearly undoes him. Theon kisses her, hard, before softening it into a caress. She deserves soft, now and always. She deserves the best.

Bearing her down into the mattress, Theon lines himself up at her entrance. “I’ll pull out,” he says. “When—when it’s time. And we’ll get you moon tea. At White Harbor, when we see the Manderlys.”

Sansa nods jerkily, screwing her eyes shut. “Come on,” she tells him. “I’m ready.” And she is, as ready as she will be. Theon tries to ease himself in, tries to be gentle. She still hisses in pain, enough to make him still until she adjusts.

Drowned _God_ , but she’s warm and wet and perfect, and it takes all of Theon’s self-control to stop himself from snapping his hips forward like he wants.

“Good?” he whispers against her temple.

“Yes,” she says. “Don’t stop.”

So he doesn’t. And after he’s moved back and forth a few times, Sansa loosens against him, strokes his hair. He wants for her to come again, but she just urges him on, breath hot in his ear.

He comes soon after, with her name on his lips.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So! Hope you guys are enjoying. Please shoot me a comment below to let me know what you think :)


	4. Needing You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa doesn't want Theon to leave.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I've got to give kudos to theonbaejoys, who's been updating all her jonsa fics that she basically abandoned in an attempt to force me to update this. It worked. Her fics are amazing, you should all read them.

It is on their fifth day in White Harbor that Sansa pulls Theon into her chambers. The guard has gone around the corner to find his replacement—he hadn’t shown up on time, Sansa bribed him with a wineskin from the kitchens—so there aren’t any eyes on them.

  
Sansa is… _slightly_ ashamed at her wantonness. She and Theon had agreed that once they were among others they would stop this, whatever _this_ was. Things had gotten better, on the ship, once Sansa had gotten over the pain of that first time, and when White Harbor was a speck on the horizon, Theon had taken her so gently it had been _lovely_. When she peaked it had been slowly, taken her by surprise, and the memory still gives her a shiver.

  
No words are needed now, but Sansa still tries for them.

  
“Theon,” she says, but it comes out like a whine, not the seduction she’d planned. The effect on him is clear, though he masks it with a smile.

  
“Yes?” He asks, leaning against the door, boxing Sansa in. She feels safer with him close, something she’d not expect normally.

  
Her head hits the wood when she tilts it back, exposing the column of her throat. Theon’s eyes follow the lines of her body, until he’s looking openly down her dress. Sansa’s chest begins to tingle and she knows she’s getting red.

  
He’s trying very hard to look unaffected, though, so Sansa doesn’t drag his mouth to hers like she wants. _Five_ _days_ without a touch, without lingering on his mouth the way she had for nearly their entire twenty-day voyage here.

  
“Did you miss me?” She asks, her voice coy. She has to shift against the door to keep from rubbing against him, but it’s worth the grin he shoots at her.

  
“Not at all,” he jokes, beginning to gather her skirts with his left hand, the hand not leaning against the door. “It looks like you did miss me, though,” he continues, voice slightly strangled when he feels her through her smallclothes. She’s soaked through, and Sansa would be embarrassed…but she wants him too much to think.

  
For a moment, Theon lays his forehead against Sansa’s and just breathes her in. He’s memorizing her, she’s sure, for when he leaves to go back to Robb. When his eyes open and meet hers, something has formed in her throat—something that, if Sansa tried to speak now, would erupt into tears.

  
When Theon drops to his knees before Sansa, she is so relieved she _does_ cry out, a soft noise that she only just remembers to muffle. The guard must be outside her room again. She cannot give this away.

  
“Sansa,” Theon says, when he pulls away for a moment, his lips glistening. It’s difficult for her not to slide against the door and fall to the floor, but she steadies her quivering legs. His eyes are dark and clear and so blue that Sansa could fall into them, if she tried.

  
“Yes?” She asks, but the noise doesn’t come out.

  
He looks as though he wants to say something, something important, but shakes his head. “You’re lovely,” he says instead, clearing his throat. “The most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.” She cannot answer, so he turns the moment into a jest. “This is where you tell me I’m the most beautiful man _you’ve_ ever met.”

  
With that, Theon puts his mouth back on her—on her _cunt_ , and Sansa really does want to cry. She wants to put him inside her and never let him go. She wants to run away with him and be—and be a _salt_ _wife_ , if that’s what the cost would be. But she forgets these thoughts, these treasonous thoughts she only ever thinks when Theon is making her feel this way, when he licks a hot stripe across her, twists a finger within _just_ so. She cannot hold back her exhale of relief, and when she slides down the smooth door to join Theon on the floor, she kisses him.

  
“I need you,” she whispers, unsure if she means right now or forever.

“That much?" He asks, raising a brow. The amusement is clear on his face, but Sansa can see that he's pleased, too. "The bed,” Theon suggests, and Sansa nods against his shoulder, but doesn’t move. He laughs into her hair. “You want me to carry you, don’t you?”

  
“Yes,” she mumbles.

  
Their clothes are still on, Sansa realizes with a thrill. On the ship, they’d take them off, but there’s something forbidden about doing this fully clothed. She’s unsure, though, when Theon lays back, and urges Sansa on top of him.

  
“I don’t know how to do this,” she tells him, cheeks flushing.

  
“Do what you think works,” Theon says, though he does laugh when he regards her confused expression.

  
She gathers her skirts so she can climb atop him, and grins down when she resettles them. He looks quite ridiculous, she thinks fondly, fully clothed, covered in a dress that threatens to engulf him.

  
His hands are working beneath her to undo his trousers, a cocky smile on his cheeks, and Sansa feels when he is successful. She steadies herself against his chest while he positions his cock against her slippery folds.

  
“Ready?” She asks, raising a brow, almost prim in her movements. She’s rewarded with a startled smile, a real one, from Theon.

  
In answer, he lifts his hips.

  
This is good, though the movement does not come naturally for Sansa at first. He hits deeper, and there’s a spot she can feel where it’s almost too good. His hands burn through her dress at her hips and she cannot control her noises anymore, not until Theon sits up and takes her lips in a bruising kiss. His hands find their way beneath her dress and it’s not long before she is coming again, harder than she ever has.

  
“It’s no good without you,” she confesses, once she’s come down. He’s still moving below her, and groans at her words. “I’ve tried, each night that we were apart. Alone in my room, thinking of you. It’s no good. I need you.”

  
“Sansa,” he pants against her collarbone, “Sansa, I’m going to—”

  
“Shh,” she says, stroking his hair. “Come on, my love. Come on.”

  
He meets her eyes, startled, before kissing all the skin he can reach. It’s her name he chokes out when he spills, deep inside her.

  
When they are done, he lies besides her. He looks troubled, more troubled than she’s ever seen. For once, he has no remark, no wicked jape to tell her after they’ve lain together.

  
Instead, he turns to her and says, “We need to tell Robb.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, please comment below, let me know what you think/what you're predicting will happen. ONE CHAPTER LEFT.

**Author's Note:**

> Such a crackship, but surprisingly addicting. Please review/comment/let me know your thoughts. This was just super fun to write.
> 
> You can follow me on tumblr @the-eagle-girl :)


End file.
